sleeves, and was smoking a pipe. The droop of his thin mustache
matched the droop of his thin shoulders--and both indefinably but
unmistakably spelled disillusion and discouragement. "It's grand, but
I think it's too grand--for us. However, daughter says the best is
none too good--in Hillerton. Eh, Bess?"

Bessie, the pretty, sixteen-year-old daughter of the family, only
shrugged her shoulders a little petulantly. It was Harriet, the wife,
who spoke--a large, florid woman with a short upper lip, and a
bewilderment of bepuffed light hair. She was already on her feet,
pushing a chair toward her sister-in-law.

"Of course it isn't too grand, Jim, and you know it. There aren't any
really nice houses in Hillerton except the Pennocks' and the old
Gaylord place. There, sit here, Flora. You look tired."

"Thanks. I be--turrible tired. Warm, too, ain't it?" The little
dressmaker began to fan herself with the hat she had taken off. "My,
'tis fur over here, ain't it? Not much like 'twas when you lived right
'round the corner from me! And I had to put on a hat and gloves, too.
Someway, I thought I ought to--over here."

Condescendingly the bepuffed head threw an approving nod in her
direction.

"Quite right, Flora. The East Side is different from the West Side,
and no mistake. And what will do there won't do here at all, of
course."

"How about father's shirt-sleeves?" It was a scornful gibe from Bessie